


Nobody's Business But Ours

by Black_Hole_of_Procrastination



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, salty teens au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-06 22:23:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10345812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Hole_of_Procrastination/pseuds/Black_Hole_of_Procrastination
Summary: Mayhaps there are some things best left between and lord and his lady wife.





	

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at thefairfleming's "spikier, saltier YOUNGER Jon/Sansa, forced to get married because REASONS" Salty Teens AU. I wrote it ages ago on tumblr and FINALLY got around to moving it here. Just some arranged marriage smut with a side serving of teen angst.

Sansa bursts into his solar in a swirl of skirts, her precious courtesies forgotten.

Jon remains seated behind his desk, earning a scowl from his lady wife. 

“What did you say to Jeyne?” she demands.

“Nothing.” 

It’s not entirely true, but he is still too furious to be cowed in his own damn solar.

Sansa charges towards him. 

With her face red and pinched, her hands balled into fists at her side, she looks so much like little Rickon mid-tantrum that Jon nearly laughs, but she is already starting in again. 

“You will apologize to Jeyne this instant!” 

“I will not!”

“You behaved like a brute!” she accuses, her voice shrill. “Poor Jeyne has not stopped crying.” 

Jon feels somewhat abashed at that, but not enough to forget what had driven him to seek out his solar (and the skin of Dornish sour he kept there) in the middle of the day.

“She presumed to advise me on our marriage,” he snaps.

The humiliation of it is still raw. 

Little Jeyne Poole cornering him in the godswood, babbling away with all manner of oversolicitous advice on how he might better please his lady wife.

When Sansa pleaded for Jeyne to come and stay on as her companion, Jon had thought nothing of it. Jeyne was harmless, if a little silly, and he hoped that in having her friend nearby, some of Sansa’s iciness might melt.

Sansa did seem lighter and more settled in her role as lady of the keep, but Jon cannot be glad for it, for while Sansa may be in higher spirits, she has not softened towards him in the slightest. 

It chafes to watch Sansa spend hours whispering and giggling with Jeyne throughout the keep, when she can scarcely muster a civil word towards him on the best of days.

_And now that he knew what they were whispering about…_

Jon’s face heats, thinking of Sansa snickering with Jeyne over his failings as a husband.  

_She did not think him so poor a husband when she was in his bed._

Once Jon had thought bedding Sansa would be the most difficult part of their marriage, but it is strangely the only time they are comfortable in one another’s company. 

Of course that mattered little now.

Since Jeyne’s arrival, Jon had been usurped as his wife’s bedmate, Sansa choosing instead to share her chamber with her friend, just as they’d done as girls.

Whether Sansa’s aim was to put more distance between them or to punish him, Jon is not certain, but it had been three long unbearable weeks of restless nights. 

As infuriating as it is to admit, he _misses_ her (and he is beginning to fear she does not feel the same). 

“Jeyne thought she was doing a kindness,” Sansa says loftily, as if addressing an simpleton. “She is my best friend!”

Jon startles when realizes how close Sansa is standing to him.

Some time in the midst of their bickering she has rounded to his side of the desk, and now hovers almost near enough for her skirts to brush his knees. 

Jon swallows, shifting in his seat.

“Is that why you felt the need to tell her all of the particulars of our marriage?” he asks, leveling her with an accusing glare.  

Sansa flushes, though more from fury than embarrassment he suspects.

“I did not need to tell her anything!” she cries out. “Anyone with eyes can see how miserable we are!”  

Her words sting. 

Things are not easy between them, that is true, but Jon refuses to believe it is as terrible as she says…not yet anyway. 

“Miserable or no, I think that what is between us should stay between us,” he says pointedly. 

Sansa scoffs.

“What _us_?”

Her eyes are bright with fury, but something else as well, a heated look he’s only caught glimpses of in the dim candlelight of her bedchamber.

Jon is not certain who moves first (he is not certain it matters). 

His hands tangle in her hair, pulling at the base of her head as she leans forward, hands braced against his shoulders for balance. 

Their lips meet and he sighs against her mouth from the relief of it. 

For one glorious moment there is nothing but lips and teeth and tongues and Sansa, sweet and yielding as she only ever is when in his arms. 

He cranes his neck to better reach her, grappling for more contact, his hands bracketing her hips to tug her closer.

_This won’t do_.

She yelps in alarm when pulls her onto his lap, but offers no other protest, shifting to straddle his thighs and bending to kiss him once more. 

She hates his beard, has pleaded for months for him to shave it off, to look more like one of her damned Southron knights and less like the bastard prince she wed, but now her hands cup his cheeks, fingers trailing maddeningly along the hair on his jaw while her lips desperately chase after his.

He snakes a hand beneath her skirts, moving over one long, stockinged leg to the front of her smallclothes. 

He digs the heel of his hand against her mound and she gasps his name in that breathy way that always sends his heart hammering against his ribcage. She only ever calls him ‘Jon’ when they are like this. 

_Mayhaps she finds it too difficult to maintain social niceties with his hand on her cunt,_ he thinks wickedly.

He moves his fingers over her smallclothes, determined to wring as many ‘Jon’s’ from her lips as he can. 

She scrambles forward, trying to increase the friction with his hand, her hips accidentally rubbing against where he is already painfully hard. 

“Seven hells!” he curses. 

After three weeks of a cold bed with naught but his own hand for relief, the feel of her is near enough to unman him, but gods is it bliss. 

She tugs impatiently at the ties of his jerkin, her mouth struggling for purchase against each inch the newly exposed skin. 

She nips at his chest. He hisses at the sweet sting of her teeth scraping his collarbone, his hips bucking upwards. 

“Oh Jon!”

They are moving against one another in earnest now, her hips canting towards his with the same ragged urgency. 

“Faster!” she orders in that infuriatingly bossy tone she uses to prompt his courtesies. For once he is happy to oblige.  

A part of him longs to do this properly, to strip her bare, to taste her, to touch her, to be inside her, but to stop now would be madness.

She is panting his name against the shell of his ear as she peaks, fingers laced in his hair. She is still riding out her release, her hips moving in jerking circles, when he follows, muffling his groan in the soft flesh of her neck. 

He can feel the fierce thrumming of her heartbeat against his skin, and is pleased that she is just as affected by this as he.

It’s an absurd turn of events, the pair of them locked together, sweaty and sated.

And fully clothed, he thinks sheepishly.

He will have to change his breeches before he meets with the Master of Arms, but that is a thought for later, when his lap isn’t full of Sansa.

He moves to rest his forehead against her shoulder, as they both struggle to regain their breathing, enjoying the boneless way she’s draped over him. 

“This was improper.” 

Jon chuckles. Only Sansa could manage to sound so prim while sitting astride him with her skirts rucked up to her waist. 

“It isn’t funny!” she grumps, shifting away from him. “It’s _midday_! What will the servants think?”

He wants to say he doesn’t give a damn what the servants think, that they should move to his bedchamber and properly scandalize their staff, that he wants nothing more that to stay abed with her until midday tomorrow, but Sansa is already scurrying back to her feet in a huff. He reaches to pull her back, but she slaps his hand away.  

Jon frowns, settling back into a chair that feels too big without the weight of Sansa tucked against him. 

He watches as she fiddles with her skirts, smoothing imaginary creases and refusing to meet his eye. 

It’s back. That infuriating formality she wields to keep him at arms length. Once more she is the same stuck-up priss, and he is ‘my lord’, the husband she never wanted. These are the roles she’s cast them in this mummery of a marriage. 

If he doesn’t do something soon, this is how they are likely to stay. Stilted. Distant. _Miserable_.

Sansa makes for the door and Jon feels a surge of panic bubble up in his chest. 

“You were right,” he calls after her. Sansa stills in the doorway. “This…it’s not her fault. I’ll apologize to Jeyne at supper.”

Sansa eyes him warily, searching his face for…deceit? mocking? He isn’t sure, but he holds her gaze hoping he looks sufficiently contrite. 

“You were right as well,” she offers quietly, hands twisting in front of her.

“Mayhaps there are some things best left between and lord and his lady wife.”

Before Jon can even begin to puzzle out her words, Sansa bobs a quick curtsy and flees out the door.

Jon slumps back in his chair, frowning at the empty space where Sansa had stood.

_What was that?_

 

 


End file.
